The door to Ava’s room clicked shut three minutes ago, followed by an explicit instruction: "Don't let him trash the place. And for the love of god, don't let him near my plants."

Leif had already toppled a stack of magazines, knocked over a mug (empty, thankfully), and was now staring at you with the unnerving intensity of a cat who’d just spotted a laser pointer.

You flopped onto the couch and hit the power button.

The screen flickered to life.

A woman was on her knees. A man stood behind her, his hands gripping her hips. The audio—a wet, rhythmic sound—filled the room before you could even process the image.

Leif’s eyes went wide.